


Three Feathers

by Finnspiration



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Pain, Pre-Relationship, Pre-show, h/c, understated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finnspiration/pseuds/Finnspiration
Summary: Crowley is missing.  Aziraphale has to figure out how to find him and save him.  Also, hell isn't very nice, even to its own.He could never quite hide from Crowley. He cared too much; he knew it.  His lips parted. "Seeing you hurt—it—it was like the world ending." He gripped Crowley's arm, gently of course.Crowley's lips quirked in a smirking sort of pout-smile.  "Am I your world then, angel?"





	Three Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-show. Canon compatible levels of unrequited feelings (on both sides).
> 
> This story contains (non-graphic) torture, a.k.a. Crowley in hell and not having a very nice time of it.

 

The trouble wasn't that Crowley was missing.  Aziraphale didn't expect to see him every day, even every month.  Sometimes years, decades, went by. Still, there was always the comforting knowledge that he was around, he was somewhere on Earth.  He could be found, if need be.  

Sometimes, if Aziraphale simply wished to see Crowley, Crowley would saunter into Aziraphale's life for a bit of fraternization: a chat, a drink, a little tit-for-tat with the Agreement.  Mostly, it was to catch up, and everything else was an excuse, a chance to see each other.  

But he was always there.  On Earth. He could be found, if Aziraphale so chose.  He could even, in a sort of way, be summoned by wishing to see him, not that Aziraphale liked to think of himself as summoning anyone, much less, well, summoning a demon, which Crowley still was, even if he didn't seem particularly evil.  He asked questions, as he always had, and he caused trouble, but it was mosquito-like trouble. He didn't torture or kill or steal children's lollies. He caused annoyances.  

Crowley was the kindest a person could be and still be nominally on the Other Side.  Aziraphale thought that if angels and demons did have free will, he'd have crossed back over by now, if only so they could both work on the same side.  Though when he spoke of heaven, Crowley seemed more bitter than wistful.  

Still.  Perhaps he'd have come back home, if he were allowed to.

Not that heaven really felt much like home to Aziraphale these days, either.  Earth felt like home; his bookshop, and the cosy comforts of earth, with its imaginative inhabitants, so much potential in all of them, potential for love and hatred, good and bad, beauty and despair.  He liked humans; he always had. He liked the idea of helping them along...  

Well, if he would not consider crossing over to join the Other Side (and he wouldn't, not ever; he'd made his choice once and that was all), then no doubt Crowley felt the same, even if he'd had another chance.  No doubt there were good reasons for not having another choice, Reasons beyond his comprehension. Ineffably.  

But he still couldn't help thinking, in his heart of hearts, that Crowley would have made quite a good angel if he'd been allowed another go.  He'd already proven he could work the odd miracle for good (even if they could never tell anyone about that). And it was true he leaned towards the darkly funny and ironic more than the truly whimsical, but he had a kind heart underneath, Aziraphale was sure of it.

Then again, he could _not_ delude himself that he was in any way an objective party.  Crowley was far too dear to him to think of as evil, or anything but a friend.  Naughty, sometimes. Waggish, perhaps. Even a bit of the rogue...

Aziraphale sighed.  

At any rate, whatever he was, for good or for ill, Crowley was not on this Earth, and that was really quite odd and worrisome.  Even when he was sleeping for quite some time (as had been known to happen—evil might never sleep, but Crowley had been known to, for ages), Aziraphale could sense him, far away and faintly, like hearing snoring from the opposite side of a great draughty house. 

It was a pleasantly comfortable thing to be aware of, because Crowley felt rather happy in his sleep, and Aziraphale enjoyed hearing that echo.  Sleep was as comfortable to Crowley as a bookshop was to Aziraphale, a place to feel at peace.  

So even when one missed Crowley not coming round because he was being a great slugabed, well, one couldn't feel entirely lonely for him, either.  One could miss him a bit, but not like this. Because now he was _not_ here, he was not snoring, and in fact he was so far away Aziraphale couldn't sense him at all.  

He wouldn't have used the holy water without saying goodbye, would he have?  He'd have surely given Aziraphale a chance to give him a pep talk and distract him through his despair.  

Certainly Crowley had his moments of wanting to give up, but usually, he got through them well enough, with some help if he needed it.  Aziraphale couldn't exactly miracle him through them, make him feel completely better. Angel miracles, when worked on demon consciousness, were not quite safe, and might have caused more harm than good.  Not to mention it would be completely impossible to explain if the Head Office caught wind of it, and that would certainly cause more harm than good for both of them. An angel trying to help a demon, whatever next, ha-ha.

Crowley could explain things away as tempting an angel, if the subject ever came up (not that it had so far; he kept a low profile about their friendship), but there was simply no feasible way for an angel to claim he'd been tempting a demon.  To do what? Behave himself? Try to be a bit nicer?

So, Aziraphale was careful about that.  They were always careful. Crowley was a careful being himself.  He wouldn't have left, not on purpose, not without saying goodbye or for how long he'd be gone.  

He'd have found a way to leave Aziraphale a message, if he'd been stationed somewhere else.  He was clever with technology, and sneaky, and quite good at thinking up places to meet, and codes, and all that sort of thing, not that Aziraphale could keep it all straight at the best of times.  But, well, he'd had said goodbye, that was all.

And he hadn't, and he simply wasn't here, and it was...it was unacceptable.  Quite unacceptable.

Somebody ought to do something about it.  

#

Aziraphale had no contacts on the Other Side.  Crowley was his friend, but he didn't go around consorting with the Other Side beyond that.  

He needed no secrets they held, no information, aside from anything Crowley wished to tell him.  Also, of course, there was risk of his friendship being discovered if he did speak with anyone down there, and he was worried that some of the whiteness of his wings would tarnish, somehow, if he ever conversed with a real demon, a proper demon, who was Actually Evil, and not like poor Crowley.

_Oh dear...I'm thinking of him as poor Crowley now.  I must really think something has happened to him._

There was no time to delay, and no sense in pretending he didn't know what to do.  He couldn't ask Heaven to help find his friend the demon, and he couldn't ask Hell.  

So he asked the Earth.

Now, it was long posited that the Earth had a soul.  Various sects and belief systems had reached this conclusion at various times throughout the ages.  Many of them were burned for that, but it didn't make it any less true. The latest incarnation for this belief was the Gaia theory, which so far nobody had been burned for.  Aziraphale felt that was surely a hopeful sign.

The Earth was certainly alive, and with a consciousness all Her own, as lively, creative, and wonderful as the humans who lived on her (well, perhaps a bit more so, as she'd come up with a great deal of variety to go along with them, things like dolphins and stingrays and all sorts of insects, while mostly they had found ways to bugger it up).  But yes. Creativity. The Mother of Invention, sort of.

At any rate, he knew who to contact and how.  It was not particularly hard to find a grove of very, quite old trees, light a few candles, centre his consciousness, and think himself down, down, _down_ into the earth.

She was sleepy, and not in a good mood.  He supposed the fracking had something to do with it, since that was the first thing she mentioned. 

He made his greeting polite, his request short and sweet.  _Please, my dear, can you tell me where my Crowley is?  I can't find him._

The Earth turned on her axis and thought about it.  She knew Crowley, of course, same as she knew Aziraphale.  Aziraphale had introduced them both, fairly close to the beginning.  Crowley had seemed skittish and shy, and the Earth, who was younger then, had seemed hopeful and open to new ideas.  Now, she seemed to dreadfully tired, poor thing.  

_He's not here.  They took him._

_They?_   Aziraphale asked nervously.  _Do you mean...the other...demons?_   It felt strange even thinking of Crowley as being like them.  He wondered if he was deluded, blinded by love, inculcated by his time amongst humanity to think of Crowley as more human than anything else.

 _Yes_ , said the Earth, and closed Her eyes again.  _Now please let me sleep.  They're drilling into my veins._

 _Oh dear.  You poor thing_.  He left her to it, feeling vaguely guilty.  He'd quite like to talk to Crowley about that, see if either one of them could make any sort of plausible excuse for miraculously (or abominably) interfering with this fracking and mining nonsense.  

It had all come on quite suddenly, only the part few hundred years, and now they couldn't seem to get their machines out of the Earth, could they?  It was all dreadfully phallic and violent, these sort of penetrations. It would not do for long.  

Still, what could one angel do about it?  At least, one angel on his own, without a little help.  He returned his consciousness to the forest, to find the candles all burned low.  

He blew them out, fretting.  So, they'd taken Crowley, and so abruptly and fiercely that he'd had no time to say goodbye or ask for help.

Would he?  Surely he would.  He'd ask for help, if he _really_ needed it, wouldn't he?  Sure, he was a dreadful proud fellow, always trying to save face, never liking to admit he needed anything or cared, but he did care and sometimes he needed a bit of help, and that was all right, really.  

_He'd have called me, he'd have asked, wouldn't he?_

_Oh dear.  How can I help, if he's Down There?_

It was no good fretting about it.  He had to come up with a plan. And he had to be quick about it.

#

Crowley had always known that humans were more ingenious in their evil diversions than demons, when they set their minds to it and really gave it a proper go.  The Inquisition had proved that. And this proved Somebody had been taking notes.

It was really quite a novel experience being kidnapped by his own Side, and dragged down to Hell to be practiced on.  They needed to keep their hands in, and his name had been drawn from a hat.

Not novel in a good way, mind you, but certainly novel all the same.

"Perhaps this will motivate you to secure some more souls," said Hastur, who was having a bit of a grandstand at the moment.  It was a breather of sorts, and fortunately, Crowley couldn't answer back and provoke him further, not just at the moment, as things stood.  Not that he was standing either, or in fact doing anything under his own power.  

He wondered if a demon actually could be killed by torture.  Perhaps he would find out.  

While Crowley had, in fact, thought about ending it all at various times, particularly bleak personal moments over the years, this was not something that had occurred to him.  Or the way he'd have preferred, even if he had made such a choice. And he really would have liked to say goodbye to his angel, as well.  

The trouble was, there were always new ways to hurt, and you didn't really discover that till you experienced them.  New ways to break your heart, when you thought you hadn't got a heart anymore. And new ways for your soul to be broken, apparently, too.  

It was all rather confusing after while: mind, body, soul, whatever he had of each, all hurting and mixed up and with bits missing now.  They'd torn strips off him, and now he was...missing bits. Memory, feeling, something else. He couldn't remember what it was.

If they took enough, would he discorporate entirely and forever?  Destroyed, as thoroughly as if he'd been baptized in holy water? Perhaps he'd find out.

Someone came and spoke with Hastur, and he turned aside.  Crowley couldn't see quite well enough to tell who it was, but he didn't waste this chance.  He changed swiftly into his snake form.  

He hadn't worn that form for quite some time, but it still fit him like a sleek leather jacket.  He shuddered as pain settled into new places and old. But this was better. There was a deep snaky strength to him like this, deeper than his mind.  And fewer sensitive bits where he could be hurt.

Hastur turned back, glaring at him.  Then his gaze grew thoughtful. "Snakes shed their skin, don't they?"  His grin widened. "How about a little help with that?"

The snake shuddered.  The other being present said, "But sir, a real angel feather..."

"Three of them," said Hastur, without taking his evil eyes off Crowley.  "Talk him up to three, and we'll agree."

 _What?_ thought Crowley _.  Three feathers?  I don't understand that._   

And then he had to go away for a bit, because Hastur was moving back towards him, and taking hold of a big knife, and apparently snakes weren't invulnerable either...

 _I'll bite,_ he thought desperately.  _I'll bite and poison you._   But he couldn't get free enough to bite unless Hastur was really careless...

#

"Three feathers and we send him back early," said the demon with the dreadful teeth, showing them to full effect.  "And fresh plucked. None of this sleight of hand I hear you're so fond of."

"You've heard of me then?  Oh, thank you," said Aziraphale, pleased that his skills with rabbit-and-top-hat magic were appreciated.  "Of course. Fresh plucked. But you must send him back _today_ , you understand—not soon.  Today, and the feathers to be traded off at _that exact moment_.  I don't make foolish deals, you understand, and, well, really, if he's not back shortly there's no point.  He won't be able to take the blame, you see."

The demon grinned nastily.  "An angel fucking up so bad he needs a scapegoat!  Haw haw!"

Aziraphale managed to shift around and look wretched.  "Well, it's really rather embarrassing, dear fellow. I do wish you wouldn't laugh."

"I'd like to pluck them feathers myself," said the demon, leering at him and doing something unpleasant with his tongue.  "I'll get the snake now."

 _Snake?_ thought Aziraphale.  _Oh, dear, he's gone full snake!_

It did not quite look like Crowley when they brought him.  Nor did it feel quite like him. It seemed as though...oh dear...it seemed as though bits of him were missing.  And part of his shiny black skin had been torn off. But it was more the inner pieces, the sensation that something was a bit off, missing in fact, that worried Aziraphale.  Crowley could heal from injuries. But...but they'd done more than a few injuries here.  

Whatever trouble had he gotten himself into?  _Oh, poor Crowley_.  His eyes were glazed, and if he was conscious, it wasn't by very much.  

Aziraphale fought back betraying tears.  He mustn't show sympathy or concern. He'd only been able to effect the trade by seeming like the worst sort of selfish and scheming angel, the sort of angel a demon would believe, who'd gotten himself into trouble with a decision gone wrong and needed somebody to take the fall for him, so to speak.  

With Crowley missing from Earth, there'd been no one to blame, so he'd bargained for his speedy return, trading a few angelic feathers, fresh pluck'd, in order to keep his good reputation.  It was the sort of bargain a demon could believe, and the sort of treasure they liked.  

They'd probably do unspeakable things with his fresh-plucked feathers, but, well, _Crowley_.

 _Oh, poor, dear Crowley_.  The snake was dumped at his feet, and lay still.  Aziraphale swallowed thickly. "Very well, you've kept your end of the bargain," said Aziraphale, trying to sound braver than he felt.  He'd never actually plucked out one of his feathers before, much less three.

He bent a wing forward enough to select one and grasp it.  He looked at Crowley, and gave a hard yank.  

"Shit!"  It hurt like the dickens.  He winced, eyelids flickering.  Crowley stirred, but not much.  

The demon laughed and clapped his hands, delighted.  "Ooh, gives me a thrill, that does! Do it again, you prissy nance!"

"I've been called that by better fellows than you," said Aziraphale, trying for offended dignity.  It was hard to keep his eyes off Crowley. He selected another feather, fingers trembling. He knew now how much it was going to hurt.  He looked at Crowley. He yanked the feather out.  

Perhaps it would have been better to do two at once, and then it would be over now.  But no, it took all his strength to pull one out, and most likely, two at once wouldn't have come out, and it would actually have prolonged it, and he'd have had to apply even more force for a second go, or do each feather separately after all and still hurt himself more.  

The demon was laughing like anything, a crazed look in his eyes.  One of Crowley's eyes opened and he stared blankly up and stirred slightly.  He looked so dreadful like that, in pain and not himself.  

Aziraphale selected the final feather.  He was crying a little, and hoped it didn't show.  It really did hurt dreadfully, and he was so worried about Crowley.  They'd both been in some fixes before, and helping one another out was part of the Agreement, but _this_.  It had never been this bad before, and, he hoped, this would be the worst it ever got.  If they could get through this, surely they could get through anything. _Oh, please be all right, Crowley..._

He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, and plucking the third feather hurt the worst of all.  He felt rather dizzy from the pain. He staggered a bit, as the demon laughed and clapped, and then Aziraphale bent down and scooped up Crowley and whisked them both away, leaving his three white feathers behind, floating down, the demon scrambling after them, snarling.

"My dear, my dear," said Aziraphale helplessly.  He cradled the big snake in his arms as he flew, lopsided and awkward, not yet having adjusted to the missing feathers.  

He gazed down at the poor hurting snake in his arms, and then he did cry.  He was only a poor soft angel. He couldn't be expected to hold it in forever.  

#

Crowley woke up in his car.  He was sprawled awkwardly over the back seats, with a headache and a taste in his mouth like the mother of all hangovers.  

He felt like shit.  

Queen was playing loudly, and Aziraphale was in the front passenger seat, looking back at him, half pleased, half worried.  

Houseplants were, bizarrely, all around him, some on the floor of the car, some nestled close behind his knee, near his feet, etc.  It was cramped enough without that.

"What?" he asked Aziraphale.  Then he croaked again, "What?"  He sat up, running fingers back through his messy hair automatically.  He winced and bumped his head, and knocked over a pot, sending dirt scattering.  "Bloody heaven!"

"Drink some water, there's a dear fellow," said Aziraphale, giving him one of his most affectionate looks.  "You'll feel better in a bit, I think. You've had a rough ride of it."

"Did I have a car accident? I thought I couldn't have those.  And why are there plants....?"  

He stopped.  

He'd just remembered being snatched by the hellish persons who were supposedly on the same side as him.  Snatched, to be tortured, just for practice. Just for fun and practice. Keeping one's hand in, as it were.  

"I suppose they've sent me back," said Crowley, through his teeth.  Everything hurt, and there were missing spaces in his mind, places that would hurt if he prodded at them, so he didn't.  He looked at Aziraphale. "How'd you find me?"

"Oh," the angel fluttered a bit, and looked away.  "Sources, you know. I asked around. _Please_ drink up, Crowley.  You must be thirsty."

He was.  He drank.  He belched.  

"I could really go for some wine.  And sleep for a month or three." He looked at Aziraphale again.  He couldn't remember being returned, or anything much towards the end.  He supposed they'd gotten tired of it, sent him home to recover and get back to work, and Aziraphale had happened to come across him, decided to help him out.  

What good luck.  "Thanks," he said gruffly.

"I thought the car might help you feel better, since you love it so."  Aziraphale wasn't looking at him.

"I wouldn't say I love it," protested Crowley mildly.  "Demon, remember? I'm not really supposed to love anything."

"No," agreed Aziraphale with a sigh.  He fiddled with his necktie. "I have wine at my bookshop.  Are you fit to drive? I hope you won't, if you aren't."  

Crowley climbed into the front seat, scattering a few more plants and not bothering about it.  He could clean up later, in a snap. He was more worried about the way Aziraphale was acting.  

"Did I say something stupid before I came round?" he asked.  He was fairly sure that, early on in his round of nightmares Down There, he'd called for Aziraphale.  Just one or twice. Maybe...possibly...more than that.  

He was fairly sure he'd only said _Angel_ , and not _Aziraphale_ , and that they'd thought he was complaining about how he used to be an angel and should be above this sort of thing.  Something of that sort. Anyway, nobody had staggered about in shock or said, "Aziraphale? Why would you be calling for him?" Instead they'd said things like, "You're no better than we are, sunshine!"  It hadn't helped him any, but at least—

He gazed at Aziraphale, pursing his lips.  "I don't feel quite myself yet," he admitted.

"Well, I can't drive, so we'd best take a cab," said Aziraphale.  You knew things were in a rough spot when the angel didn't bother to complain, simply grew competent and take-charge.

"I'll be all right in a minute."  Crowley reached out, letting his fingers trail over the angel's sleeve.  "You didn't have to. But thanks."

Aziraphale gave a tight, miserable little nod, looking like he wanted to cry.

"Can I ask, why, er, the houseplants?" asked Crowley softly, making his hoarse voice as gentle as he could at the moment.  

The plants weren't his, he'd have recognised them.  They were somebody else's. It made no sense, really.  Not that he actually cared at the moment. He just really didn't want Aziraphale to cry.  He didn't know how to stop that from happening.

Aziraphale blew his nose on a handkerchief before tucking it fussily away again.  "Can I ask why they were torturing you?"

So he had said something.  Or he'd been in bad enough shape that Aziraphale had only needed to take one look at him.

Crowley cleared his throat, tried to keep his voice even.  Shame washed over him, though, at how weak he felt. How singled out, and betrayed, even though he didn't know why he'd ever expected anything better.  It wasn't like he could rebel from hell, was it? There was nowhere else to go; hell didn't have to worry about the competition. There simply wasn't one, if heaven didn't want you back.

"Practice," he croaked.  "Keeping the old hand in.  They pulled my name from a hat.  Now, the houseplants?"

"You were quite badly off, Crowley," said Aziraphale.  "I needed to give you some—some strength, some healing energy, but I couldn't have done that properly without burning you, of course.  So I surrounded you with plants and sent the energy into them, as a sort of filter, you see, so you could absorb it without being singed."

Crowley raised his eyebrows.  "I see. Quite clever of you."

"Yes, well, I really _would_ appreciate it if you wouldn't get yourself hurt—"  His voice cracked, and Crowley was appalled to see tears.  Aziraphale was crying because of him. In a way, it was a whole new sort of torture, and one of the worst sorts yet.

"Don't cry, angel," he said gently, reaching for him.  "I'm all right now."

"Are you, though?  They tore great _pieces_ off you, Crowley.  Will you ever get them back?"  He turned his dazzlingly love-filled gaze, swimming with tears, on Crowley.  He reached out as if to touch Crowley's face, then withdrew his hand, as if he didn't dare.  "They hurt you Crowley. It's—it's beastly."

Crowley cleared his throat.  "Don't cry over me. I hurt for quite a long time after the fall, but I got better.  You sort of—regroup after bit. Collect yourself and pick up and go on." He shrugged, trying to be casual.  "Sure, some bits were missing after that, but there was enough left to go on. There obviously is now, too."  

Crowley flexed one of his hands, which seemed to be working nearly properly again, and grimaced at the residual ache.  "I've got some of your energy in me now, I suppose," he said, wondering how that would make him feel, when he could feel again.  "But right now, I just want to sleep. Please don't cry."

"All right.  I won't." Aziraphale blew his nose again and shook out the handkerchief, folding it away distractedly, once again clean and pressed.

"Anything been going on while I was gone?"  Crowley started the car gingerly. He was halfway afraid to move too fast, to speak too loudly.  Pain was still at all of his edges, waiting to overwhelm him with one wrong move, despite Aziraphale's soft, gentle strength that had gone into fixing him up enough to waken.

"Well, I rather think there is.  I'd like to talk to you about it, and maybe we can work something out later."

"Oh?" said Crowley, intrigued.  He drove, lower than the speed limit.  Someone honked at him and shouted something rude.  He glared in the mirror back at them, but didn't have the energy to do anything about it.

"Oh, be quiet you dreadful man," said Aziraphale in an angry undertone.  Then to Crowley, "Fracking, strip mining, that sort of witless behaviour.  A dreadful business. The Earth isn't happy about it at all. Is it from your side?"

Crowley cleared his throat.  _My side indeed_.  His mouth felt dry again.  He wondered if he'd cry later.  If there would be nightmares. Or if it would just be like everything else.  You went on, because there was no real end to anything. You just got up and recovered the best you could, and went on...

"I think it was another one from the humans," said Crowley.  He wasn't sure he was clever enough to invent all those sorts of things.  Besides, he rather liked the Earth. She'd never minded about him being from the wrong side, as far as he could tell, and she'd even talk with Aziraphale, proper talks and all.  He couldn't hear her himself, but that didn't matter so much.

Aziraphale shook his head.  "Well, she's not happy about it.  I thought perhaps we could—careful, dear fellow.  Those are pedestrians, you know."

He was even gentle while scolding Crowley's driving today.  

 _He must've really been scared_ , thought Crowley.

When they got the bookshop, Aziraphale didn't go inside right away.  He gathered plants from the car, tutting over the spilled ones. "I should've gotten better pots," he said.  

"Oh?"  Crowley held the car door for him, patiently.  He was still in a great deal of pain, but he was standing, he could move, he could speak, and he was with Aziraphale.  That meant nothing was quite as awful as it could've been, and far better than he'd dared hope.

"Something that didn't spill soil everywhere.  There must be a thing like that. Surely clever humans don't want to spill earth in their cars from houseplants."

"I think you'll find that's why they call them houseplants, not carplants."

"You'll have to clean your car."  Aziraphale dusted at a seat ineffectually.

"It can wait."

"Yes, of course."

They went indoors and closed the store after them.  

Crowley got a bottle of wine without asking, seated himself very gingerly, and began to drink.  He felt a bit better every minute he was awake, so he must be starting to heal already. Still, his present existence was perfectly painful at the moment, and drink and sleep would be good medicines for him.  He watched while Aziraphale settled the plants on the counter, fussing over them.

"You've got to be strict with houseplants," said Crowley, and took another big swallow of wine.  It was some good stuff, but he couldn't pause to savour it. He needed it as fast as he could get it.  "You can't baby them or they'll get lazy."

"Oh, that's all right.  I think if anything has the right to be lazy, it's plants, and especially these."  He looked at them affectionately, touching a green leaf. "Do you know they clean the air indoors?  And, of course, they make an excellent energy filter."

Crowley frowned.  "That's fine, but do you have to fuss over them?  Come sit with me for a bit, before I pass out." He patted the seat beside him.

Aziraphale came over to him immediately.  "Of course. My dear fellow. Feeling any better?"  He gazed into Crowley's eyes with worry, as if he was looking inside him.  

It could make one feel quite exposed, being looked at with Aziraphale's full attention.  And no sunglasses today to hide behind, either.

Crowley looked away first, and pushed his hand away gently when Aziraphale reached up to feel his forehead.  "I can't get a fever. You know that, angel."

"I worry about you," said Aziraphale in a sad little voice.  He looked so unhappy that Crowley wished he'd let him fuss a bit more.

He looked back at the houseplants.  They seemed to be smirking _.  Just you wait,_ thought Crowley.  _I can hold a grudge._   And then he felt quite foolish, because he wasn't really angry with houseplants, he was angry with torture and weakness, pain and eternity, and making Aziraphale sad.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.  "Are you going to sleep here? Or are you quite certain you'd be safe at your place?  You really must be left alone in peace for a while, my dear Crowley."

Crowley liked being called _my dear_.  It made him feel all gruff and noticed.  "Here's fine," he said. "If you think I won't get in the way."

"Oh, no, I'd rather be able to check on you and keep out a weather eye."  He opened one eye wider than the other, using his fingers, like he was a pirate.  

Crowley laughed.  "That's the weather one, is it?  That eye right there?"

Aziraphale nodded.  His sweet smile came and went.  "You will let me know if—if there's anything I can do?"  He stood up, clasping his hands together.

"Cheers."  Crowley raised the nearly empty bottle.

"Then let me help you to my spare room.  It's quite soft. You should even feel comfortable if—if you'd rather go back to being a snake."  He helped Crowley up and Crowley—just this once—let himself lean on his angel. He really wasn't feeling quite like himself.

"Was I a snake?" he asked.  That was a surprise. He usually wasn't one.

"A very poorly snake," said Aziraphale firmly, patting his arm.  "So you must rest, there's a good fellow."  

He led the way to a poky little room.  Aziraphale switched on a soft light that didn't hurt Crowley's eyes, even with this headache.  It was a very small room and the bed looked very soft, and there were books, lots of books...

"Well, I am you know," said Crowley, letting himself collapse back onto the bed.  Aziraphale took the bottle, and Crowley's eyes closed to blessed darkness, the regular, earthly darkness that always held the promise of light to come.  "A good fellow." He yawned. "In my own way."

"I know you are," said Aziraphale, very serious.  His voice was soft. Still worried, poor fellow.

"I'll be all right," said Crowley, and yawned again.  "It hurt worse when I Fell." And then he was out, soundly, safely, and for quite some time.

If he dreamed, he thankfully didn't remember it.

#

"I'm afraid that volume really isn't for sale.  No, I'm sorry sir, but if you could be so kind—"

Aziraphale was gently discouraging a persistent customer when Crowley came stumbling out into the shop, looking like a disreputable rock star, and yawning.  He wore sunglasses, black trousers, and a half-open shirt, and was scratching at himself as he yawned. He looked like he'd been through a hangover and an orgy (and possibly another hangover and yet one more orgy), but he'd actually just slept for two weeks.  

In that time, Aziraphale had stayed vigilant, keeping an eye on Crowley, (and staying tuning in to his presence to be sure he was recovering and resting peacefully), and keeping an eye out for both heavenly and hellish notice.  

So far, so good.  They hadn't attracted attention, and all had been well.

Crowley's inner flame had been burning so low it flickered, though.  Aziraphale had sent the hardworking houseplants back into the breach, filling them every day with heavenly energy, and letting them filter it so it could leak into Crowley in a way that wouldn't hurt him.

Everything else was fine.  Except hearing how much it had hurt to Fall.  Sometimes, the ineffable was hard to understand.  Sometimes, the Divine Plan felt so awfully cruel.  

Nobody should hurt Crowley.  He should certainly be punished, at times, if it was completely necessary, for his own good, to some purpose, but never like that.  

He was a good fellow, for all his flaws.  Or at least, he was far better than he ought to be, for a demon, and if there was a way he could do good without getting caught, he would do it (and then get angry if you ever mentioned it).  

Now, Crowley gave the patron an evil look that sent the man skittering from the store, banging the door behind him.  The bell jingled.

"Thank you," said Aziraphale, letting go of his rigid posture and slumping a little.  He moved to Crowley's side, and reached up again to touch his forehead, then hesitated.

Crowley rolled his eyes, his whole head.  "Go ahead, but I'm telling you, it won't tell you anything."  He held still while Aziraphale checked, not for a temperature, but for a feeling of wholeness, for the essential Crowley-ness to be there, home again, where it belonged.  The Crowley with bits missing had been so heartbreaking.

Aziraphale was relieved to feel that Crowley seemed nearly himself again, no longer half there and consumed by pain.  He seemed like his usual tetchy, lazy, indulgent, and gentle self.  

And he was staring at Aziraphale, from quite close, looking at his face as though mesmerized, memorizing.  Aziraphale looked back at him, feeling so very seen. He could never quite hide from Crowley. He cared too much; he knew it.  His lips parted. "Seeing you hurt—it—it was like the world ending." He gripped Crowley's arm, gently of course.

Crowley's lips quirked in a smirking sort of pout-smile.  "Am I your world then, angel?"

His attention shifted, past Aziraphale's shoulder, sparing him the embarrassment of trying to answer that.  "Did something happen to your wing, angel?"

"No.  No, nothing at all.  Quite perfectly normal.  Angelic. Feathered. Why would you ask?"  He cleared his throat.

Crowley gave him a sceptical, level gaze.  "There's feathers missing. I can see them.  See? Here and here." He reached over and touched the ineffable wings, running his fingers on them.  The wings were both there and not there, as always. He'd forgotten that Crowley could see them even when Aziraphale had made them invisible to humans.

Aziraphale shuddered at the touch.  Wings were not invented for pleasure.  They were for usefulness. Nobody touched his wings.  And yet...it was certainly a very...intimate sort of...

"Three.  Three feathers!"  Crowley sounded indignant.  His fingers were gentle. He was always gentle, no matter what he said or how fierce he acted.  Maybe he always would be.

Oh, but there were places they didn't dare go.  They couldn't take it any further, this association, this compromise...this Agreement.

"Oh, that," said Aziraphale, feeling breathless.

"You've been careless," said Crowley.  "Fussing over houseplants, and couldn't even keep track of your own feathers!"  He clucked disapproval. "Be more careful, angel."

"I've lost them," lied Aziraphale, breathlessly bald-faced.  "Only three. Quite an unfortunate, um... All is well. Never you worry.  They'll grow back."  

He looked at Crowley, knowing he was unable to keep the love out of his eyes, out of his voice.  He kept the next words to himself, though. _You'd be worth more than three.  I'd have given them all if I had to._

Crowley gave him the sort of smile that made his dimples show.  He rocked back on his heels. "Will you take me to lunch, then, Scruffy-Wings?  I want to eat something. Something sweet," he added, and gave Aziraphale a wink, before sauntering to the counter.

Crowley leaned against it, crossing his arms, managing to look fragile, strong, sweet, fierce, tragic, and beautiful somehow all at once.  He stole Aziraphale's breath sometimes. He likely wasn't doing it on purpose, and there was no malice involved, but it happened all the same.  

There was nothing to be said about it, since there was nothing to be done about that; it simply was.  

"You need only ask," said Aziraphale, straightening his bowtie, his wings, and what was left of his dignity.  "But perhaps a shirt, my dear fellow."

Crowley snapped his fingers, and on came a shirt.

They headed out of the shop, to get a spot of lunch.

Perhaps they would talk about how to prevent something like that dreadful kidnapping from happening again.  Or perhaps they'd make plans to help Earth in her hour of need. Or they'd discuss music, books, art, cars...anything at all.  

Maybe they'd talk about everything, and nothing, just like always, till the end of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
